Thursday, June 6, 2013

More than a memory

It's been 8 weeks today since my boyfriend took me to the hospital for a regular check up. 20 weeks pregnant - half way there! We were so excited because this was the check up we'd finally find out the sex.

We had a few wall decorations, a car seat,  rocking chair, bottles and one outfit, but after this check up we could finally really start getting ready.

At our first sonogram, 11 weeks, I had eaten an orange for breakfast, and boy did it make baby hyper! It was amazing to watch him dance around in my tummy.

So 8 weeks ago we walked in the office, after drinking a fresh cup of orange juice, hoping to see my baby partying some more. "Party in the womb!" I called it. I closed my eyes as the doctor showed Daddy the sex, I promised to wait until later at the reveal party to find out. But then the doctors voice changed.
I don't remember much, I just remember her coming in and out with another doctor, and then some nurses. I remember looking at my boyfriend so confused.. Why are they so calm? But in their voice something sounds so wrong? Is it bad? Is it okay to cry? Okay or not, I was crying. But I'll never forget the look in the doctors eyes as she handed me a tissue. It was a look that told me it was okay to cry. It was finally an answer to my question - yes, something is very wrong here.

I was put in a wheel chair and wheeled through a long tunnel as my vision went blurry. Everyone was rushing yet everything was in slow motion. I closed my eyes and next thing I remember I was in a bed with at least 5 people above me poking and strapping things to me left and right. One was my boyfriend.

"Call Mom," I told him. Part of me was scared out of my mind and part of me started to wonder if I should even call anyone. I won't be here long, everything is gonna be fine.

It was a long 4 days on bed rest. I couldn't move, barely sit up to eat, and barely focus long enough to have a conversation. I don't remember too much, just a lot of praying and planning to be in the hospital for a long time. And a lot of visits, calls and texts that were really appreciated. Anything to take my mind off of what was happening. 

But when night came and it was just me and my boyfriend Donnie, there was no escaping the reality of it all. We just held hands and looked at each other with worry. 

I was 20 weeks pregnant, and 6cm dilated. The only thing holding Braden in, the doctors said, was the membrane (the water). The only thing I could do for a chance for my son to survive was lay in a bed for 3 to 20 weeks. 

We definitely had hope.

I was surprised at how many people reached out to me and had similar experiences as mine. Not only that, they were all success stories - women who were on bed rest for 3 months and saved their baby's lives. I had so much hope.

But Monday rolled around and the cramps started, around 7a.m. I thought it was strange that my boyfriend and I were both up at 4:00 that morning, but now I know why, and I'm glad we were.

Anyway, I could tell you details from that morning, but it would probably end up with me blaming people for what happened. I remember crying as the pain got worse and the nurses crowded over my bed once again, and I looked at my boyfriend -- still by my side -- and I just shook my head saying " It's too soon. It's too soon!" His voice broke and he just said " I know baby." 

Then my water broke. I was rushed into labor and delivery where my family surrounded me with love as we waited to have a baby who we all knew would never be able to live. It was so screwed up. Nobody knew how to feel or what to say, at least I didn't.. I just wanted to sleep for 3 months and then wake up and say it was just a nightmare.

 It was awful.

And now, 8 weeks later, I can honestly say that everyday does not get better. I don't even live day to day any more, it's moment by moment. Some moments are better, but some are just as excruciating as that Monday in the delivery room.

I cry all the time. I cry because people are gonna forget that I have a son. I cry because people may not consider me to have a son. 

I cry because I want to pitch in to stories about my pregnancy or giving birth, but that will lead to too many unbearable questions. 

I cry because I never got to feed him, never got to feel him grasp my finger, hear his little yawn, teach him how to say Dada.... 

But every single day, I cry because I'm doing something and realize that I should be doing this pregnant. I should be huge. I should have a son on the way.  

So many people are on Facebook complaining about their pregnancy, but I enjoyed every minute of mine. The bad never seemed that bad because it all - even the bad - meant I was going to have a little baby to take care of. 

I even cry some times when I haven't been thinking about it, because I don't ever want to forget, or let it be small. I don't want it to be over. I don't want to move on.

I cried when the nurse called it a miscarriage. Technically that is what happened, I miscarried him. But I held him in my arms, I gave birth and held my son in my arms and so many people I think don't realize that.

It's just so hard to comprehend. 

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